


Phonecall

by milestogo2



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hyuroi Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 14:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7760962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milestogo2/pseuds/milestogo2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots of Roy's and Hughes's lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phonecall

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr's #HyuroiWeek2016! I would highly encourage everyone to check it out!

The phone rings not even five minutes after he walks in the door, which really irritates him. You’d think that after fighting for the government for the better part of a year they’d leave him alone for half a minute. (He isn’t actually that annoyed; it’s a welcome distraction, really.)

It’s thunderstorming too, actually, which he thinks might just be the single most ironic event of his entire life. He had given the matter quite a bit of thought, and eventually decided that, if the opportunity ever arose, he’d be willing to literally cut off one of his fingers in exchange for one day of rain in Ishval. He only needs two to snap anyways.

So he kicks off his very muddy boots and stomps over to the telephone, trying not to get the cord too wet. He clears his throat and pauses for a second before picking up the receiver, then says, “Major Roy Mustang,” as professionally as possible.  
It was, in fact, not the military.

“Hey! Roy! This is you, right?” Roy actually has to close his eyes for a few seconds.

“What do you need, Hughes? How did you even get this number?” He pulls over a chair from the kitchen table, figuring that he may be here for a while. (Honestly? He doesn’t mind, not even a little bit. He’s not sure why he keeps trying to act otherwise.)

“You gave it to me, remember? Hey, why’d you leave the station so fast, what the hell?! I looked away from like one second and you were gone!”

“I was just being polite!” Roy says indignantly, “I wasn’t about to ruin you and your girlfriend’s moment.” How could he possibly have found something to complain about already?

“No no no! I wanted to introduce you—I know you’re going to love her, listen, you have to meet her tomorrow! We can get lunch!”

“Lunch,” Roy repeats amusedly.

“And then she said I can meet her parents, and soon I’ll be able to propose to her—oh, I need to buy a ring! What do you think she’d like, I don’t really know much about jewelry? Is there some sort of unspoken _rule_ for what you’re supposed to get, I feel like there is, but—”

“How would I know any more than you do?” Roy says, rolling his eyes and hoping that he doesn’t sound as flattered as he feels. (He probably doesn’t; he’s very good at that kind of thing.) The sky is beginning to darken and shadows stretch through the window across the floor, rain still racing down the glass. He thinks about how easy it would be to fall asleep, but he doesn’t.

* * *

Roy wakes up with a headache; he lifts his head off his arms and stares around his office, vaguely disoriented. It takes him a good twenty seconds to identify the noise scraping against the inside of his skull as the telephone and go to pick it up.  
He has a fairly good idea of who’s calling, but still answers, “Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang,” just to be safe.  
There was no need.

“Roy! I have a very important question to ask; it’s urgent!” Roy lays his head down on his desk.

“Is it _really,_ Hughes? I’m working,” he tells him listlessly. 

“Hmmm, are you sure? Not sleeping?” 

“Well, I’m working _now,_ ” Roy says after a pause. “Has someone assassinated Fuhrer Bradley? Because right now that’s the only situation I can think of that would justify waking me up.” 

“Close! The thing is, Gracia’s parents don’t like the dress she picked out and now they won’t speak to her, and I don’t really know whose side to take since I can’t have either of them mad at me and I’m not even sure what a good wedding dress looks like anyways, what do you think?”

“Is this really my problem?” Roy complains, picking up a pen on the edge of his desk and idly clicking the end. The sun is streaming in through the window with the kind of fuzzy heat that makes him feel like hitting something, and a small jealous part of Roy really really does not want to talk about Hughes’s wedding.

“Of course it is! You’re the best man, you have to be involved! Okay, I mean you probably don’t know about wedding dresses, but still—!”

“I know, I know,” Roy says, exasperated. Hughes seems to take this as permission to keep talking, and launches into a very lengthy description of what the venue will look like. Roy is rather miserable. He considers hanging up, but he doesn’t.

* * *

As a general rule, nothing good happens after midnight. So, understandably, when Roy’s phone rings at 2:30 in the morning, he assumes that whatever happened had involved at least one person’s death. After nearly pitching himself head-first down the stairs he manages to reach the phone mostly intact, though not entirely awake, and answers with what he hopes is at least a partly-intelligible greeting.

“Roy, you won’t believe what’s happening!” Roy blinks very slowly and attempts to process the voice on the other line.

“What happened?” he asks Hughes anxiously, “Was there a murder? Do you need me for the case or somethi—?”

“Gracia’s having the baby!” he interrupts very loudly. Oh. (The opposite of a murder, technically.)

“What? You mean like… now?” he says articulately, still trying to wake himself up. “Shouldn’t you be with her?”

“That’s what I said!” he tells Roy, sounding mildly hurt, “But she kicked me out for a while… apparently I was “smothering” her.” 

“You probably were,” Roy informs him bluntly. Poor Gracia.

“What am I supposed to do?” he says, suddenly quiet. “I don’t know how to be a parent. I don’t deserve her.”

“Come on,” Roy says somewhat awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Have you met you? You were practically born a dad.” Hughes goes silent for a while, which worries him. Almost everything comforting that he’s ever had to say has been a complete shot in the dark.

“Maybe,” he replies doubtfully. “I still wish you were here.”

Well, that effectively wakes Roy up, and also slightly panics him. The one time when _Hughes_ actually needs _him,_ and he's not there. Of course. _What kind of a friend are you?_

“I’ll go now!” he says quickly, looking around the room for his wallet. Okay, he could probably catch a train to Central by 3:30 and then arrive early that morning, by which Gracia would probably have already had the baby but it’d be better than _nothing,_ and then call back to his office and make a request for leave. It likely wouldn't be granted, of course, seeing as recently he hasn’t been able to sleep for more than four hours at a time due to a pileup of cases, but at least it’d show them that he cared (even if he didn’t). There wouldn't be much that they’d be able to do about it if he was already in Central, anyways. 

“You don't have to come _now,_ ” Hughes is saying affectionately, “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Oh, it doesn't matter,” Roy says distractedly as he stretches to try to reach his keys without letting go of the phone. “Okay, I’ll see you soon, I’m leaving now—and good luck.”

“Wait Roy! Once you get here, you'll hold her—or him— right? And take a picture? Please? I know you'll love whoever they are!”

“Of course I will!” Roy says, and carefully puts back the receiver. He keeps looking at the phone for a second, smiling a little absentmindedly, but it fades rather quickly. He hates to admit it, but he's not very confident about the idea of having any sort of responsibility regarding something as important as his best friend’s kid. It's sounds selfish, but he really hopes that they don't ask him to do much. He’s never even had any younger siblings— he doesn't know how to deal with babies. Realistically speaking, he's probably killed more children than he's held, which is such a morbid thought that he actually has to smack himself.

He wants to call Hughes back, but he doesn't.

* * *

The sky is gray and restless the day that Colonel Barkow dies. Roy sits down at his desk that morning and glances offhandedly at the newspaper, then snaps his gaze back to the front page. _FIVE OF CENTRAL’S MOST EXPERIENCED STATE ALCHEMISTS MURDERED BY NOTORIOUS SERIAL KILLER._

Roy raises his eyebrows with interest, and glances quickly around the room for any onlookers. Seeing no one, he picks up the phone and waits, listening to the faint ringing of the other line.

“Hello?” Hughes says cheerfully.

“It's me, listen I have to know—”

“Hey what a surprise, you're actually calling me!” 

Roy rolls his eyes. “I know, I know—but about Barkow, is he really dead?”

“Yep!” Hughes says, probably much too happily. “Found completely deconstructed like the rest of them, it's that same serial killer at it again. Damn, I'm glad to see him go. It’ll be nice to come into work in the morning without listening to him bragging about the people he killed on-duty the night before. It's still a shame about Gran, thought.”

“Have they talked about who’s going to replace him yet?” Roy asks carefully, glancing again at the door.

“I know what you mean. No—and I'll put in a good word for you. Wouldn't it be great if they transferred you here?”

“One step closer to the Fuhrer’s office,” Roy says matter-of-factly. It _would_ be useful if he got to move to Central—even aside from promotions, the chance to get closer to Bradley was always welcome. And to Hughes, though obviously for different reasons.

Thunder rolls in the distance, the gray clouds growing and shifting. The air is humid and heavy with static; it costs the window with a thin layer of fog. The whole sky seems to hold its breath in anxious anticipation for the coming storm. It's a strange day.

“We're definitely doing the right thing,” Roy says flatly. “Moving to the top. We're not better off dead.” It's a question. Roy feels nothing at all. A strange day, really.

“Of course,” Hughes says, though Roy can't quite make out his tone. “You think too much.”

Roy knows that, of course. He just likes to hear Hughes say it. He makes it more real, somehow.

He thinks about telling Hughes this, but he doesn't.

* * *

It is an extraordinarily unremarkable day. It is warm, but not too warm. The sun is shining, but not too brightly. Clouds dot the horizon, but they don't cover the sky. It's the kind of day that one expects to forget entirely by the next few months.  
By now, Roy doesn't bother wasting a second wondering who might be calling him.

“You have a phone call from a normal line from Lieutenant Colonel Hughes from Central,” the operator tells him. Roy sighs inwardly.

“Hughes again? Put him through… it's me. I won't listen if you're going to be bragging about your daughter.” Silence. Roy feels a likely irrational prick of uneasiness. 

“Hughes? Hughes? Hey!” Still nothing. The uneasiness starts to grow—he knows nothing’s really wrong, but he can't help it. “Hughes? Hughes!” He hears the click of the other line as it’s hung up, and Roy is left staring at the silent receiver in his hand.

* * *

Roy taps the end of his pen against the desk, squinting at the tiny print of the form on his desk. The transfer to Central had, obviously, been an important success, but he’s beginning to doubt if he still would have taken it had he known it would involve so much paperwork. He had also assumed that leaving East City would finally get him away from the terribly hot summers—he was wrong about this too, and the sunlight saturating the room is slowly putting him to sleep.

He reads the same sentence about five times, listening to the buzz of the cicadas, before finally relenting and picking up the phone.

“Hello?” Sheska answers in her characteristically polite voice.

“I need to speak to Hughes,” Roy tells her distractedly, still frowning at the paper. She goes silent for a second.

“I need to ask him about the one form… the… you know…” His very sleep-deprived brain is not cooperating and he can't think of the name. He stifles a yawn. “Just put him on, please.”

“Um…” Sheska says, somewhat nervously, “Did they not tell you, Colonel Mustang? About the, uh, the murder?” Roy blinks.

“Brigadier General Hughes’ murder, I mean?” Sheska continues awkwardly when he doesn't reply. “Did… did you not know? He's… you know…”

“Of course I know he's dead!” Roy snaps angrily, “I'm not an idiot!” He slams the phone back and picks his pen back up, staring blankly at the form. He can't focus, and props his chin up on his hand. He wants to cry, but he doesn't.


End file.
